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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29798541">Four Winds Blow, Beneath the Shadow of My Father's Soul</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun'>MellytheHun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Deadlights Zine Series [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, Friendship, Friendship is Magic, Love, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Meta, Minor Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Prophetic Visions, Racism, Soulmates</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:16:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,058</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29798541</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MellytheHun/pseuds/MellytheHun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike, without reason in the Deadlights.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Deadlights Zine Series [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862683</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Four Winds Blow, Beneath the Shadow of My Father's Soul</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>PLEASE READ THE TRIGGER WARNINGS</p>
<p>TW: death scenarios, violence, mentions of parental deaths, survivor's guilt, fire, childhood trauma, internalized homophobia, fear, race-related fear</p>
<p>Title inspired by the song 'Here and Gone,' by Mississippi Twilight</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">
    <b>Mike</b>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are three delis/butcher shops in the town limits of Derry, and the one furthest from the farm is in the downtown area, where it’s always bustling. In the early mornings, the shops are opening up, and keepers are good-morning one another, and in the day the adults go shopping, wives mostly; in the afternoon the schools let out, and kids come stampeding through, and then evening falls with quiet strollers on pavement, window-shoppers holding hands, and sharing cigarettes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mike has always liked going to the one downtown, no matter the time of day, because, despite resenting a lot of the folks of Derry for their ignorance, and hate, for the few steps between where he stands his bike, and walking through the side door of the deli, he can pretend he’s part of it all.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For a few steps, he’s just a kid, and he’s a kid that lives in the nice part of Derry, and he can daydream about having a locker at the middle school, or living in a four-bedroom house with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>foyer</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Even if it's silly to dream about something like that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He imagines his father and grandfather opening up a shop, readying something behind tables, ribbing one another like they used to, and he'd be there in the mornings to help, but then he'd be off to school. He and his friends would rush out after the final dismissal bell, and they'd bike to his family's store, and his mother would come by with lunch packed up for absolutely everyone, and they'd drink pop, and fool around at the arcade before getting their schoolwork done. And as the day came to a close, Mike would good-bye and good-night his friends, his father and grandfather would good-bye and good-night the other store keepers as they switched their door sign to 'closed,' and he'd help them wrap up for the night. And he'd look forward to doing it all again the next day.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It’s not the most extravagant daydream, but it makes Mike happy.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For a few steps.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The owner of the downtown deli has three sons, and Mike has known this ever since he was able to deliver meat to them on his bike, because the sons would all help their dad, same as Mike helped his grandfather. Family-run businesses have a culture of sticking together, and supporting one another, no matter the tones of their skin - or so Mike has been told by his grandfather. Mike isn't always so sure about that.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mike thinks that the sons didn’t like him at first, though they’d have no reason not to - or, no sensible reason. Once they came to know Mike a little more, they were faster, and happier to help him unload his deliveries. Still, it took them warming up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>A week before he met the Losers, he’d made a quick stop at the butcher’s shop for a midday delivery, and saw two sons at work.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The youngest of them wasn’t there. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Chilling dread turned his stomach upside-down, but there was no reason for that bad feeling either. No sensible reason, anyway. He couldn't put his finger on anything material to be fearful of, and so it seemed to be without reason.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>No one mentioned the youngest son, no one made a show or mention of him not being around, and Mike quieted his thoughts by suggesting to himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe he’s sick today</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just like his daydream of living in Derry, like one of the well-off, white boys, it was a simple idea, but it was a daydream all the same. It was unreal, and while it may be enough to encourage him, hearten him for a few steps, it was fantasy, and he knew that in his heart of hearts.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mike knew it was a daydream, that it was a wishful thought, he could feel it in his bones - he knew whatever was going on was something more dire. More sinister. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Something bad had happened, and no one had noticed. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He knew then, right at that moment, somewhere deep in his heart, he’d never see that boy again, and what was worse was that, for the life of him, Mike couldn’t even remember his name.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wanted to ask the butcher, he wanted to say something, call attention to the fact that he was under staffed, that clearly something was different that day than it had been all other days, but he didn’t. He was fearful to verbalize it. As if verbalizing it made it real, and he would somehow conjure the tragedy that had already befallen them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The Something Terrible had already happened, Mike couldn't be blamed surely, but even beyond that, if Mike were to pretend to be a well-off white boy of Derry, then he'd take after them and ignore the bad things too. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>That's what those folks did, after all. Even if something was so, so wrong, and a silence felt like the tide pulling too far back, the residents of Derry say nothing, and do nothing, because maybe they all think that if they put it far enough from their minds, then it will not have happened at all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike never saw the third son again, and when he later brought it up at the farm, no one remembered a third son at the butcher’s shop. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembers sneaking away to the Derry Library, looking at articles about the fire that killed his parents, and he would wonder to himself </span>
  <em>
    <span>why? Why them, and not me? Why anyone at all? Why do people in town remember the fire, but never the people who died in it? Why does this feel like something More? Something worse?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There are plenty of reasons to fear Derry; bigots, and fools abound, hurt everywhere, justice in scraps on the kitchen floor, never enough to go around. Barely enough to be seen, or heard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sees the way Richie looks at Eddie when Eddie isn't minding him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, when he notices it, rather than making him smirk to himself knowingly, or charming him with how ridiculous they are about each other, Mike will feel that dreadful pull of the tide too far out. And he fears for them both. He fears for them all.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He sees how Richie’s gaze lingers on Eddie’s exposed skin, how he acts up around Eddie, gets sensitive, and excited, how he manufactures scenarios in which it’s okay to touch Eddie, and Mike notices too that Eddie doesn’t fight it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Derry is a dangerous place for boys like them, and Mike isn’t any better off, because eventually, someone will notice how he acts around Bill, and something worse than staying at home sick will happen to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something worse than a wiring mishap, something worse altogether than a fire, something More, something dire, something sinister, and then no one will remember he was ever there at all, because that’s what happens in Derry.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In some ways, he wishes someone already knew - and maybe Richie knows. Maybe Richie has seen it, recognizes himself in someone else, and so he thinks it's safe to do with Mike around, but Mike knows his presence only puts the Losers in more danger.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bill Denbrough, Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak, Beverly Marsh, Ben Hanscom - and again - Bill Denbrough, Stanley Uris, Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak, Beverly Marsh, Ben Hansom - and again, and again, until he barely associates meaning with the sounds he's making. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Mike can't let them become a third son, he can't let something More or worse happen to any of them, and he sometimes fears that he'll be the cause they're all gone, forgotten, erased. Not for any reason in particular, not for any sensible reason, but simply because he is. He is, and he loves them, and so fire will come spreading.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He loves, and where he loves, fire always follows.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without necessarily knowing where he was before, Mike finds himself in the Derry Library, but it’s a dreamscape, he knows it can’t be real, because the library goes on forever. It expands, and deflates, as though it’s breathing, and even as he knows his surroundings can't be real, and even though he knows no book at the Derry Library will answer all the questions he has, he’s compelled to try and look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Running from shelf, to shelf, desk, to desk, Mike sees himself from above, flipping through pages, he’s all but tearing the books apart at the spine, he’s collecting armfuls of files, skimming through folders, bustling towers of tomes to a desk, poring over them, and heat is closing in. The contractions of the breathing library become more frantic, more labored.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Red balloons float past him, and he resolutely ignores them, wiping sweat from his brow as it becomes harder to breathe, intent on finding what he needs to know, why him, why his parents, why fire, why the butcher’s son, and the florist’s daughter, and the pharmacist’s brother, and that couple that went missing near the park. Why, and how, and what’s the More, what’s the dire, terrible, yellow-eyed thing that’s watching him now, choking him with smoke, burning the edges of pages with no answers -</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a door to run to, but - </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>
    <em>“It doesn’t matter, does it? That's what you wanna ask, Mike? </em>
    <em>Hooooo-hoo!</em>
    <em> No, no, no, it doesn’t, but go ahead and try!”</em>
  </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mike knows that voice, even if he doesn't know who it belongs to right away, and it's then that he's drawn back into his body, his vision limited, the fire is building around him, sucking the water and air out of him with every breath he takes.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The building shudders, there's a pounding heart somewhere, and though he knows it will do no good, he's compelled to try and escape. He doesn't know which instinct to fight.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The door won’t budge, even if he nears it, even if he begs it, even if he pounds on it, and screams for help. The bookshelves are knocking themselves down like dominoes now, red balloons and flames are licking the walls, he’s unbearably hot, and he knows it’s only a matter of time. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's only a matter of time, and it always has been, because time isn't a reason, time isn't sensible, and so it's demise, and it will come for him, because time doesn't forget a third son. Time won't forget him either, and it will burn him up in Derry because of the color of his skin, because of the nature of his work, because of his family's financial status, because of the level of his education, because of the boy he likes too much, it will come for him, and it will destroy him, and the walls are tight, the smoke burns his eyes, his throat is closing, the walls are shaking, cracking open, his time has come, of course it has - then something else warm is touching him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not something More, not anything sinister, but something solid, and real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Arms loop under his, a face tucks away into the crook of his neck, and he can smell, over the burning parchment, oak, and plastic, whatever shampoo it is that Bill uses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can hear it, then - the gentle timbre of Bill’s voice, the staccato of his words.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I www-won't leave you b-behind, Mike. Come on b-back to us. Come back to mm-me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>The expanding, popping balloons and crinkling, crackling flames grow higher, filling up the endless halls, enveloping everything, but Mike is being pulled down into cooler air, blinking into wakefulness again as Bill nuzzles his throat, a delicate kiss has been left near his jugular, the Losers surround him with careful hands, and tearful eyes, and Bill is holding him so close, he swears he can feel Bill’s heart pounding against his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mikey?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>There’s a sensation, like a phantom limb - something important has just happened, but Mike can’t remember what. He's glad it's over, though, whatever it was.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>And, frankly, he’s a little too happy to be held by Bill, to have his undivided attention, and so he wraps Bill up in his arms, and Bill laughs wetly against him, ignoring his own tears to ask Mike if he’s okay.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s a question Mike doesn’t immediately have an answer for, which - there's no reason he shouldn't be able to tell. No sensible reason, anyway. Still, he doesn't know.</span>
</p>
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